


Stand Tall (though the dark wave comes)

by SerenLyall



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: A new hope, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 06:36:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4425173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenLyall/pseuds/SerenLyall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She stepped from the ramp of the Millennium Falcon with head high and shoulders squared, her eyes burning and an edge of raw anger ringing in her words. (But the truth is that she is anything but strong--anything but the fearless and unbroken woman she pretends to be.)</p>
<p>Or: Leia, after her arrival on Yavin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stand Tall (though the dark wave comes)

She is exhausted—exhausted, and crumbling, and bleeding sorrow, anger, agony from the festering wounds rent into her soul by (black hands and gleaming needles; fire and ash;  a thousand, a hundred thousand, a million voices crying out in terror, in horror, in pain; silence empty and void and eternal, ringing with echoes of what-has-been and what-should-be, with the fading, weeping sighs of what-is-no-more) the tortures dealt upon her mind and body over the course of the last eighteen days. 

She shakes, raw fire and anger and the burn of  _duty_ , and  _need_ , and  _I have no choice_  keeping her on her feet, giving her the strength to stand. (Her body cries for sleep–demands it with a sirens’ chorus, pleads for it with a demon’s cry. Her stomach gnaws at her spine, begging for food, for substance, for  _something_ to fill the emptiness yawning between her ribs. Her mouth is dry, her skin feverish, her head fogged, her balance unsteady as her entire body whimpers in want of water.) But still she stands, with head held high, and shoulders squared, and jaw set dangerously, eyes flashing, hands in tight fists and back straight. 

(And some few of the oldest soldiers who see her think silently, privately,  _She looks like her father._

None of them realize the full truth of that thought.)

“We have no time for our sorrows, Commander,” she says, firm and strong, even as she strides forward with clear purpose and distinct demand, pulling away from hands that would catch her should she fall, arms that would carry her should she falter.

(But the truth is that, silently, she thinks,  _If I look back now, I’ll shatter._ )

-x-

Others wonder at her strength. Many at Yavin had heard when the _Tantive IV_ disappeared—they knew it had been eighteen days since the fateful message had been broadcast to any who cared to listen that the Alderaanian princess’s ship had been destroyed by an unexpected meteor shower—and so now to see her, sharp-tongued and raw and  _burning_ , carrying with her stolen data and pronouncing doom, it does not take a genius to figure out where she had been. What had happened to her. Though few, yet, have begun to guess just how far the Empire had gone—how wanting they had been—to break her.

And so they wonder at her strength: At the fact that she is even on her feet. At the sight of her pacing like a caged vornskr (still dressed in that tattered, stained, singed white gown). Even more so at the knowledge that she at once takes her place among High Command, sliding beneath the demanding mantle of leadership even before the engines of the battered old freighter that had carried her to the base have cooled.

Some also wonder at her coldness—at her lack of emotion. By now all know of Alderaan’s destruction. And so to see Alderaan’s princess so silent, so untouched…

Most realize that it is shock. That too much has happened in too little time. That no one person could process, could even begin to comprehend all that had happened in so little time… 

But some still wonder—and some still judge.

-x-

The Death Star draws near, and each moment grows more precious by the second.

Though she is exhausted—though she trembles, and the void within her chest gnaws at her ribs with bitter teeth and poisoned claws, and with each passing moment she thinks again that she has come to the end of her strength—Leia Organa stands tall. She stands tall, and she faces the broken, bleeding, desolate world stretched out before her (a world that she thinks may only last for another hour, perhaps two) with frozen tears and shattered bones and a splintered soul.

She thinks,  _This is the end._

She believes,  _There is nothing left for me but fire and darkness._

(She does not yet see the two bright lights already ignited in her broken heart.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> An attempt at breaking writer's block was made (so I can continue Phantom of Ash). The battle was bloody...but victory, I believe, was mine. This was the spoils of my war.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed (and I would love to hear your thoughts!).


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